Visiting
by Ski-Ming
Summary: My first fanfic. A girl is taken into the Curtises' home - NOT! The only original character is ignored by Cherry as she visits an old boyfriend.


Visiting

_by Ski-Ming_

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or events alluded to. They belong to S.E. Hinton and the various publishers and media distributors.

Acknowledgments: Mucho gratitude to Eli (wisk8r) for beta-reading.

Author's notes: More than anything, this story is a response to all the original characters and not-so-original plotlines that have been popping up around here. I wondered why female canon characters haven't been used more often, as romance typically tends to be a big fanfiction genre. Then I realized, _Oh! All the canon characters are being shunted to the side to make room for Kayla-Maria-Isabella-Barbeque-Robbie._ Anyway, I was just trying to write a story out of need for originality with pre-established characters.

Also, this takes place a few weeks after the events in _That Was Then, This Is Now_ – approximately one year after the end of _The Outsiders_.

* * *

LYSANDER: The course of true love never did run smooth; by either it was different in blood –

HERMIA: O cross! too high to be enthralled to low.

LYSANDER: Or else [ill-grafted] in respect of years –

HERMIA: O spite! too old to be engaged to young.

LYSANDER: Or else it stood upon the choice of friends –

HERMIA: O hell! to choose love by another's eyes.

LYSANDER: Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, war, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, making it [momentary] as a sound, swift as a shadow, short as any dream…

– William Shakespeare, _A Midsummer Night's Dream_

_

* * *

_

That evening the sky was flooded with a bloody sunset, shot with the hazy gold of pollution and bruised with a red-violet that could have been the result of a fistfight.

A girl walked aimlessly. Her blue eyes were guarded and world-weary, and her long, blond hair was greasy and matted. Patched clothing hung off her emaciated body. She took a cigarette from her grubby pack and fished one solitary match from her pocket. As she lit up, the smoke formed a halo around her head, completing the angelic picture Raphael would never have painted.

Well, that's how some people might have described her. I didn't exactly have time for scrutinizing as I brushed past her. There were other things to do.

A bunch of daisies I had picked during lunchtime were clenched in my fist. With my other hand, I pulled my sweater close to me as I walked through the quiet park – whether I was shivering because of the autumn chill or because of nerves, I couldn't say. I had been here before, a long time ago, to visit my grandfather, but he had passed away before I'd got a chance to know him. All my family says that's who I got my hair color from – after all, no one else in the Valance family has hair the color of copper. But I wasn't here to pay my respects to my dead, distant grandpa; I was going to see someone I had known very well. An old boyfriend, in fact.

It's strange how when you're not afraid, it feels like there's nothing on earth to be afraid of. When I feel like that, I try to think of things that _are_ frightening just so I won't act too overconfident. There's plenty to be scared of, after all, and I know what happens to folks who act too cocksure. But now that I _was_ scared, I kept thinking of petty little things – steps to the new cheerleading routine, how much gasoline was left in the Sting Ray, anything to take the focus off where I was and what I was doing.

Part of me cursed myself for having gone alone. My friend Marcia's always reading ghost stories and then retelling them to me at the worst times, like right after we've seen a scary picture at Rusty's Drive-In, and I guess they were all coming back to me because I must have spooked about a dozen times, thinking I saw someone pouncing out of the shadows. This other part of me kept insisting it was right that I was doing this by myself.

That part of me is the stupid part, and I always listen to it.

I guess you could say this guy really egged that part of me on, made me act like a fool even now; I don't think I'd disagree too strongly. I sure was acting dumb: Who in their right mind goes poking around in graveyards when it's almost sundown, anyway? I kept accidentally-on-purpose going in circles, trying to put this off as long I could. Truth is, I knew exactly where this guy's grave was even if I hadn't ever visited him – I mean _it_, the grave. I hadn't gone to the funeral, but Marcia went and told me every last horrible detail about it, right down to where he was buried.

I passed a big marble angel and a huge family crypt as I walked toward a small grove of trees. Marcia had said that he – his grave – was near a young black willow tree. His family planted it for him, I think. Now, I couldn't have told the difference between a black willow and my left foot, but I spotted Bob's grave anyway.

You can't know how seeing _Robert Sheldon, Beloved Son_ made me feel.

The grave was decorated with all sorts of stuff: flowers, stuffed animals, a homemade flag with our high school's name on it, an empty liquor bottle with "Here's to You, Bob" scribbled over the label. I wanted to throw that last one into the woods where it never would be seen again, but for some reason, I didn't.

I shifted a rotting bouquet away from the headstone so I could kneel down beside it. I placed my fistful of daisies down in an empty patch of grass nearby. I guess I had grasped them too tightly earlier, for now they looked squashed and dead.

What else are you supposed to do when you go to a grave? I didn't remember what I did when I went to Grandpa Valance's. I sat there in silence for I don't know how long; it could have been two minutes or it could have been twenty. Just sitting, trying to think of something to do.

My nose itched and I scratched it, not caring if relocated daisy pollen turned my face canary-yellow.

The shadows were growing longer.

The sudden noise of a rising voice made me cower next to Bob's headstone.

"… don't know why he hates me so much. I never beg to tag along – Soda asks _me_ to go, not the other way around!"

Although my first reaction to this voice was to shrink back against the gravestone, I let out a long breath of relief when I heard what the voice was saying. In all of Tulsa there were only a few people who really knew someone named Sodapop, and out of those people, no one alive except Ponyboy Curtis could be considered a tagalong – even if that wasn't true.

I didn't hear anyone answer him, so I crept up behind a large maple (my hair blended perfectly with the red leaves) to see who he was talking to.

But to my bewilderment, when I poked my head around the tree, there was only Ponyboy.

I hadn't seen Ponyboy for a while – that awful bleached-blond hair had finally grown out, and he had grown a couple of inches, though he was still kind of small, even for a … was he a sophomore now? I was a senior now, so that should be right, but he was a young fifteen. A young fifteen with an old soul.

Curious to know who he was talking to, I kept quiet.

"I don't even know why Soda thinks Steve is so super-tuff," Ponyboy was saying as he paced in front of two small headstones, his back turned toward my direction. "Why does _anyone_ think he's super-tuff? Is it 'cause he puts too much grease in his hair, or 'cause when he talks you can _feel_ bitterness and hatred seeping out of him? He always talks like that – 'specially to me!" His sheepskin jacket, which looked about two sizes too big for him, was sliding off his shoulders, and he paused to adjust it. "I bet you think I'm exaggeratin', Johnny, but Steve likes you. Everyone likes you. You're the pet. But _glory_, Steve hates me!"

My eyes went wide as two green moons when I understood who he was talking to.

"Most of the time he's okay when anyone else is around, but I just can't stand it when I'm alone with him – and Dally, I _know_ that you'd say I should just belt him, but if I tried that Steve'd beat me to an inch of my life," he continued.

I wasn't sure what was more disturbing: that Ponyboy was talking to dead people, or that he was talking to them like they were alive. Maybe a year wasn't enough to recover from what had happened. Or had he just flipped out?

Ponyboy's voice had been steadily escalating, but now his tone dropped. "I guess I have a rep at school now for being kind of a tough guy – an East-side hood, or somethin'. And I know Two-Bit does too, and lots of other guys I know who ain't that bad under all that grease. Sure, there are some real hoods around. Just last night, Darry an' Two-Bit and me had to pry Curly Shepard off this hippie – and Curly and the flower child were the same age! We got kids fighting all over Tulsa 'cause of reputations and assumptions. Not just hoods: Socs and cowboys and greasers and who knows who else, they're all pounding each other bloody. All you've got is your gang to keep you from blowing up every day from the pain. Your buddies are the only folks who can help hold off all that hatred.

But when a guy from your own gang hates you – well, what can you do? It's easy to beat the tar out of a Soc if he calls you white trash, but what if it's another guy from the gang who's doing the name-callin'? You can hit him, whip out a blade, or a chain or a heater. Heck, you could kill him – but what does that help? It won't bring you two back, or Mom and Dad, or – or even Bob!"

My trap was hanging loose like it was open season. I couldn't have swallowed if you paid me.

"In English class – I'm saying this for you, Dally, 'cause I know you never go to school – we're reading _The Grapes of Wrath_, and one day I was reading it when I realized … well, not everyone's like Steinbeck. Not everyone sees us as folks with pain and joy, hell and bliss, just like everyone else. Sometimes if you take a step back, if you look at us cool and detached, you don't see that. You just see a bunch of bloodthirsty Okies with nothin' better to do than jump each other. And you know what's starting to scare me? That if we just don't _stop,_ stop trying to hit everyone who looks a little different, we'll all end up like –"

I sneezed.

It was loud, it gave me away, and it was messy.

I _still_ can't believe I did that. I guess I was allergic to the pollen on my nose, because if I could have helped it at all I would still have stayed silent as – well, a tomb.

Ponyboy whirled around.

I could actually see his expression change from shock, to surprise, to – was that a bit of embarrassment? I'll never know, for just then Ponyboy's expression changed to angry and he let into me like a hot knife searing into butter.

"What in the Sam Hill are you _doing_?" he demanded. Once I'd heard Ponyboy describe his brother Darry's eyes as liquid ice. I guess those eyes must run in the family sometimes. He was practically unrecognizable.

I could feel my face going Coke-bottle red. I probably looked like some sort of freak turnip. "I … uh …"

"I'll bet," Ponyboy snapped, glowering. "That's exactly what you were doing. You were poking around in some hopeless greaser's problems. That's what you were doing! If 'things are rough all over,' why do you need to hear about the shit in my life? Don't you have your own? I guess Socs really have things rough. Do you want me to pity you? _How_ can I pity _you_?"

I've said "I'm in shock" many times in my life, when what I really meant was, "What a scandalous piece of gossip; I can't wait to spread it and my opinions on it around." When I say I was in shock now, I mean I was _really_ in shock: I was scared out of my wits, unable to move, breathing shallowly, and thinking of stupid, petty things. Doing all that with dry, horrified eyes.

I finally remembered how to move my legs and I half-stumbled backward. I couldn't say anything. To do that would have required spitting out the snot that was collecting in my mouth, and relieving my dry throat.

"P-Ponyboy," I finally choked out, "Ponyboy, you sound just like Steve…."

I didn't really know what I was saying. I had met Steve a couple of times, and from the few times I'd seen him – well, I thought Ponyboy was right on the mark about him. Steve _did_ put too much grease in his hair and you could feel hatred seeping out of his voice. It was a low voice, but it was sure bitter.

Ponyboy, who had looked for all the world like a snarling wildcat only seconds ago, looked as shocked as I was.

"Oh, glory …" he whispered, his eyes round. They no longer looked like liquid ice; now, two gray moons matched my green ones. "I did sound like Steve. Only louder. Didn't I, Cherry?"

My response was to figure out how to breathe normally.

"Would you listen to me?" he said, half to himself. "All this time I've been complaining about Steve, and now I turned into him."

Ponyboy hesitantly stepped toward me and I tried to flee; but my legs wouldn't agree to do that, and anyway there was that big maple blocking my way. Inwardly I screamed, _Don't hurt me!_ This was dumb, of course, because I knew Ponyboy wouldn't do something like that.

Well, not to me, anyway.

We were only inches apart. Ponyboy grabbed the left sleeve of his jacket with his left hand, so it formed a kind of mitt. With that, he awkwardly wiped my nose. "You had yellow stuff on your nose," he mumbled. "Sorry …"

"It's okay, Pony," I said, quietly. I knew what he was apologizing for.

Ponyboy cleared his throat and quickly took a couple steps back. "Okay," he said.

I wasn't sure what to do now. I didn't want to kick a sleeping dog awake again. "What are you – I mean, do you mind if I ask what you're doing here?"

Ponyboy gestured almost casually toward the two tombstones he had been pacing by earlier. "Visiting friends."

"Oh," I murmured.

"And family, too," he added. "It's good to visit family. Who are you visiting?"

"My grandfather," I said automatically. "Grandpa Valance. He died when I was a baby."

Ponyboy nodded. "Do you visit a lot?"

"Not so much," I said. "I don't know what I ought to do."

"It gets easier with practice," Ponyboy said seriously. "Sometimes it's weird doing all the talking – at least it is for me, 'cause it takes a lot to really get me going – but once you start, it's real easy."

He crouched by one of the tombstones. "Would you mind visiting with Johnny here? I think he'd like that."

"Pony, I –" I began.

"Oh. Right," Ponyboy said, his ears turning red. "Sorry – I didn't mean to –"

A little switch in my brain must have flipped. "No," I said, so quickly and with such force that even I was a little surprised. "No, I'll talk to him."

"Really?" said Ponyboy.

"Hi, Johnny," I said, a little loudly. "It's me – Cherry Valance."

How can you tell if you're going crazy? Here I was, talking to a dead boy when it was nearly dark, and all I could think about was that it didn't seem crazy to me at all.

"Yeah, you remember Cherry, don't ya?" Ponyboy said. "Course you do. She's the cheerleader with the red hair. Can you believe a cheerleader's come to visit?"

I smiled wryly. "I didn't know I was so memorable."

"Well, Johnny doesn't talk to girls much. Once when ol' Dally was in the cooler, his girl Sylvia tried sweet-talkin' Johnny. But Steve got a hold of Sylvia and told her he'd kill her if she tried anything else. Then Johnny got lectured about two-timin' broads and such, so a girl's kind of a rare occasion for him," Ponyboy said, almost mechanically. I got the feeling he'd told the story enough times to have numbed any pain.

"Say, weren't you going with … Cathy – Carly –" I asked, to change the subject.

"Cathy," Ponyboy said. "We broke up a week ago." He laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. "Said she was going to try an' patch things up with this guy Bryon. I guess for once Steve was right about something, huh?"

"What?" I said.

"Well, what he really said would make your hair stand up, it was so dirty; but it went kind of like this: 'Love's the worst kind of drug. It's an addiction just like dope or smokes, and it's more dangerous than acid because when it don't treat you right, instead of putting your body in the earth it'll throw your soul into hell.' Steve was right on about that, huh?"

"You think you're in hell?" I half-whispered.

Ponyboy didn't say anything for a long time, and then he said, very quietly:

"Cherry, I've been in hell ever since your boyfriend shoved me in that fountain. I've been in hell ever since – ever since I woke up one morning and realized Johnny and Dally were … are gone, and so were my sunsets and innocence. Life – it just ain't life anymore without the whole gang. Everyone's always angry and bitter when they talk to me, and then _I_ get mad and bitter and take it out on Darry, even though I promised Soda I wouldn't. And I can't even make the effort to draw a picture or watch a sunset so I'll be calmer and not yell. 'Cause I get nothing, I – _feel_ nothing. Nothing! I'm gonna end up like Dally here, with the attitude everyone thinks we have on the East side with only a sheepskin jacket and a switchblade to hold onto. Heck, it's already happened. They say hell is a lake of fire, but for me it's just knowing I'm already dead."

By the end of this there were tears in Ponyboy's eyes and in my own, too, for I felt exactly the same way.

I sat there, stone-still, for about one second. And then suddenly I was reaching for Ponyboy and putting my arms around him, and pressing my face onto his shoulder, and I just cried my eyes out. For Bob, who I loved; and Johnny, who I forgave. And for Dally, who had died carrying the last shred of innocence. Ponyboy's and mine, and maybe his own.

The hazy gold had disappeared from the sky. It was now a deep turquoise, as naked and exposed as our sorrow.

But the sorrow felt good, because at least wet tears would help heal our parched and barren souls like rain rebirths the earth.

I pulled myself away from Ponyboy. "My parents would kill me if I stay any longer," I said as I stumbled to my feet.

"Darry doesn't like it when I'm late for dinner," Ponyboy concurred.

I nodded and helped him up. We stood between Dally and Johnny's graves, not touching but still close.

"So – see you," I said. It's strange how sharing even just a few minutes of complete humanity with someone impedes your ability to say anything meaningful. The compassion can speak for itself.

"Yeah," said Ponyboy.

We both turned, ready to walk our separate ways – Ponyboy to the eastern exit, and me to the west.

"Bye," I said.

"Wait – Cherry – before you go, you should know that – uh – thanks," Ponyboy said.

"You too," I said.

"And Cherry?" Ponyboy continued. "You oughtta put those flowers for Bob in a vase. They look better that way."

And he walked away, leaving me dumbfounded.

I slowly walked back to Bob's grave, wondering how Ponyboy had known. When I knelt again by Bob's grave, I saw that the flowers would indeed look better in a vase. So I took the empty liquor bottle and used that. The flowers were no longer squashed and flat, but really looked nice.

"That looks better," I said.

I knew why I hadn't tossed the liquor bottle away before, because it reminded me of Bob – tall and broad, smooth, with a habit sticking its neck out. That's why I had loved him.

"I'll be a better visitor next time," I promised Bob. "It gets easier with practice."

The turquoise over Tulsa had given way to deep, peaceful cobalt. I had no fears of being mugged or haunted by ghosts. The spirits were at ease, I think, and for the moment, so was mine.

I walked home.


End file.
